How thy litheness dimmed by the light
but with gleams of c'rious insight
And shalt then thou start to sparkle
Grab victory, win the battle

Thou art just a little devil
Whose story gives people a shrill
But still thou never lose thy thrill;
abound with tricks, traps and bad will

How thou dwelt there within my heart!
Delights it and tears it apart!
Thou art the sky to my blunt night
Thou hold my fear and squeeze my fright

A little devil, just as thou art
Unloved by many holy hearts
But to me thou art not a fiend
At times thou art my only friend!

Thou liveth both my body and soul
Mocks the good deeds but praises the foul
When I am hurt thou start to grow
Give my en'mies a gravely show

How t'ose tears wrapped along thy eyes!
Blame the sick moon and moorish skies!
They've no love despite their promise
Our suffering's just what they shalt wish.

But I dear you, my little mate
Thou art my laugh and childlike path
Although unpraised just as we are
from each other we shan't be far.

In t'is warmth, with th' sun glistening outside,
retreated I into th' magnanimous background,
hoping to absorb some air-scented like fruits, and
t'at but satisfied my soul! Chuckled I to myself,
upon t'is prosaic, but audacious discovery-and
proceeded I into th' wooden distance. But disdained
was I, that even in t'at leafy silence, in which I conjectured
swarms of love must've been present, still absent wert
thou-no matter how hard I insisted, I was not chanced
to set my gaze on th' very loveliness I was seeking-I was
shrunk into th' cruelth abode of mystery-hence, once more!
And saunter did I-forward and forward, looking like a
sun-drenched fir fr'm head t' toe, but still didst I do 't in
vain-still I couldn't find thee, querida.

Let me kiss you until I die,
and be your lover once again.
So I could trust that you'd not lie,
and would not let go of my hand.

Let me hear your voice once more,
and sing your love with tenderness.
So you would not walk out the door,
and stay with me in happiness.

Let me be your mirth and your joy,
to cheer your day with my laughter.
Giggling like a girl and a boy,
just as we greet the morn weather.

Let me live our pictures once more,
so full of embrace and vigour.
To dream of caressing your skin,
and being wrapped beneath your veins.

Let me be the sun to your spring,
and the cure to your wounded wing.
Be lost in your charms and ardour,
be swept in your love and fervour.

Let me carry you to the sky,
to play with the the star and the moon.
Meet me when the wren starts to fly,
next to the trees of the lagoon.

Tell me, then, how shall I spend t'is azure night without thee?
Without thee, querida, my soul is but solemn and vain;
just as though I've lost my brain-and my soul's bout
to drain-yes, in here where no delight-but worries,
are in me. And no shield is to protect that-
as thou, my love, art in a dream, but far-far away.
I am consoled only by t'ese fragments-and remarks,
of t'is silly infatuation-that brings thee into life;
t'is dream of my forbidden, unrequited love, for thee!
I am but without thee-my lover, my solitary prince-
wherefore can thou be? My darling-can thou hear me
wail? All day and all night, o but I long for thee,
I crave for thee only-my dear, my dear. But thou
art not here-and can't ever be here-as thou but
belong to some other's charms-how peaceful would
thou sleep in her arms-and t'is is my agony-
killing me from inside, as a lover-a lost lover from
afar. For I can only console thee by my words-a poet
as I am, and thou art a prince from a distant land-
but still I adore thee! I love thee tenderly, and most
devotedly, over the morning dews of the river, my love for
thee could not help-still it dwells, in its but serene profusion.

I am the master of my own mind
I beset my tears, I conquer my sadness
I am devoted to this world
To this very world in which I dwell
and to which my soul is admitted
Sometimes I hear my words
Fly around and again
within t'ese violent shades
about my head: as I walk by curious moonlight,
sunbeams, in 'ose solitary moods and emblems
of t'is silent quiet of th' night.
How can I be so lonely-and bathed in distress-
in t'is lovely yet calamitous winter?
How can I be so destitute and untouchable-
unlovable-unaffectionate, indeed!-without my very own
admired thee?
My soul is dejected; condemned and cursed
by th' entirety of destiny-oh, how I am accustomed to
t'is pain, and its inflamed tongue, burning mercilessly
in t'ose succulent perambulations throughout
th' volatile streets-yes, upon and across th' bridge-
what a vile remembrance, where but t'is poem
is my only vivid 'muchness'-and consolation. If only a wren
could be deemed my messenger, let her but decoy t'is
dubious fate-and bring me to slip into her arms-
thin and steep but with a fond predilection for my desires-
with consideration for our feelings-and carry within her wings
a letter from these longings, beneath
the cradling hands of the moon-yes, t'at hectic,
vivacious moon-who is lurking behind me
like a moronic shadow. Its chaotic abode-aye,
chaotic as it once was, is now unamused-and plastered
into th' surly noon, it is despaired-utterly despaired,
and deprived of love-look at how t'at wealth of serene eyes
swim around thirst, in such unwonted lullabies, and its
famished shrine! What a dejected old
sanctuary it must be-infamous and credulous to oddity, but again
fuels my anger on, amidst th' moonbeam t'at is now gone.
But I still can't find thee, querida.

Tell me, then, how shalt I spend t'is azure night without thee?
Without thee, querida, my soul is but solemn and vain;
as though I've lost my brain-and my shell's 'bout to drain-
yes, 'tis t'at no delight, but worries-in me.
And no shield is to protect t'at,
as thou, my love, art in a dream, but far, far away.
I am only consoled by t'ese remnants, o, of my infatuation-
of t'is incarcerated, forbidden love-for thee!
My very thee, who should be curling up comfortably-
like a childish moist in my arms-
in my simpering abyss, and therefore sends it into
flickers, and doesth it die-hence, forces its dread, and stubbornness
to obey! O thee, th' fixated spirit to my wondrous imagination-
and th' anxious bits of my sublime inspiration-truthfully, indeed!
How in this quieted recluse
I long for but one piece of shine-yes, just
one piece of which-to be my guiding star,
and the torch of my robbed path.
My stolen state-and luminous gravity, as dim as the mocked
aspiration, is but never to shower again-
t'at earth with smiling rain-and th'  invigorating soil 'neath
my feet-upon which I trample in deadly haste.
But my hands are scanty-and my heart is dry; that is
but admiringly undeniable;
I am indulged by my own fear, abhorrence,
and dangerous imagination. I am but without my lover-
o, thee, o my solitary prince, doth thou heareth of my
wail? I scream and scream in t'is unforgiving agony,
but thou hath not been here, lost in th' middle of nowhere
like an unnamed being-but belonging to some other's
charms, I know! But still I crave for thee-just thy eyes,
yes-those dripping blackness whose temptation is like
a cave, an invitation to deep, deeper soliloquy down its
poisonous hole. How I am shrinking into this dream again-
a wild, wild dream of seclusion, which I look upon
in frustrated reproof; thou art the symbol of its daintiness-
and thorns of delicacy-but t'at someone else! Some other
dame whose heart dearly belongs to thee-and o, how enviable t'is
object of endurance might be. How deserving of my remorse-unwilling
as my being might be, to give it. Still , out of even the shallowest comprehension-
when the sun glows over me, I will long for but thee-over the morning dews
of the river, far from insanity, will I stand there anew,
and in freshness glint at thy stateliness
in unpardonable profusion.

On t'is very still do I sit, with t'at grumpy book in my lap-
words carved nearly are as picturesque as th' beautiful heaven.
I hope but thou could heareth me-thou whose voice is like a
hint of lavender-painted in th' ballads of my heart forever.
My song, my song! Undergone a faithful revision-
towards a masculine spring of reason,
and demands a sudden but mature completion.
How I still sing for thee!
Like a bee who chases a loveless but unbending sunflower,
sipping all its empowering delight-that is but how I shall wait for thee-
in t'is passion and strong conviction for truth-
that thou wilt embrace me, as thy own queen of ardour
beneath t'is forthcoming spring, o, my knight-
and all t'is love, and love indeed-as th' very endlessness
of thy splendor.

O aye, but dreaming again is to no avail;
I am enraptured by this dangerous, unperturbed soliloquy.
'Tis within a river of shadows, I could sense no beauty but thee,
that soft mirrored image of thee, beneath the shrieking winds - and
the mortal moon; now and again!
Let me huddle thee now, and rant 'bout thee -
in 'tis wrath of harmony, and the lap of its seething silence,
standing unbroken by the sultry day. Let me comfort thee -
enlighten and tease thee, but love thee still tenderly, my dear, my dear.

I ask the stars, but they're weeping
I beg the moon, but he's sleeping
It's only me who's still writing
In my head my words are giggling

There are hundreds of beauty
But I'm only longing for thee
My heart yearns for him no longer
'Cos thou art my truest lover

If thou could be here for one night
Until the day is again bright
My innocent soul, mirth, and sky
As though there would be no more cry

If only thou'd be here with me
And dance 'till spring flash's into view
Lost in the prudent morning dew
And the holy song of the bee

If only there's a second chance
Where I could be more than thy friend
Let me dream in thy pristine charms
Let me be embraced in thy arms

At this very night I but pray
That thou would come to me one day
Perhaps in that summer of May
When bushes bloom and flowers stay

Thy gaze my festive solitude
Thy kiss blesses my dear prelude
Thy promises my windblown flute;
Thy love'th my Eolian lute.